


desideratum

by piyo_nii



Series: an inescapable type of misfortune [3]
Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Adult Themes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Nen, Brief Explicit Content, Fluff, Getting Together, I'm almost ashamed, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Porn with Feelings, Ridiculously Romantic, Self-Indulgent, Time Skips, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-05-19 12:31:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14873804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piyo_nii/pseuds/piyo_nii
Summary: “Because if you take a risk, you just might find what you're looking for.”–S. ColasantiKurapika hates riding the train. He especially hates the damned Blue Line, with its tightly-packed cars and obnoxious passengers. But there’s this one guy who likes to sit in the back corner with his nose buried in a book, and from the quick glances Kurapika's stolen thus far, he's actually kind of attractive.When life sends him on a literal collision course with the perplexing Chrollo Lucilfer, Kurapika discovers the fundamental difference between what he wants, and what he needs.PrecedesAn Eye for an Eye, but can be read alone





	1. i gotta say

**Author's Note:**

> A close family friend died very recently, so I tried to write something ridiculously self-indulgent to shake off my writer's block. This is kinda choppy and possibly OOC? Haha, _yikes_
> 
> UMM HUGE S/O TO [@kloffel](https://twitter.com/kloffel/status/1006980496302080000) FOR THEIR AMAZING ART?! I am not worthy, thank you so much!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Kurapika Kurta,” he replies with a newfound determination. In the depths of his soul, something long forgotten stirs quietly._
> 
>  
> 
> _They shake hands. And in the warmth of Chrollo’s palm, Kurapika seals his fate._

**2208 Hours**

For a city that supposedly never sleeps, Kurapika would much rather lie in bed and do just that. It’s easy, too easy to lose yourself in a corporate world driven by greed.

Kurapika’s life is a never-ending blur of _work—chug coffee—work some more—sleep—repeat._ It’s dull and monotonous, but the bills get paid and his pantry is at least stocked with the essentials, so he doesn’t see the need to complain.

He had always loved the idea of immersing himself in the hustle-and-bustle of a sprawling metropolis like York New. Lukso Province would always have his heart, but his dreams had been too big for his tiny village to hold. Little did he know that city-living meant long, uncomfortable commutes in a tiny train car, filled to the brim with people, sounds, smells. _Especially_ the smells. Kurapika always steps off reeking of another’s body odor. It’s nothing a quick shower can’t fix.

But there’s this one guy who occasionally gets on the Blue Line from Central Park Station, and his quiet demeanor draws Kurapika in like a moth to a flame. His fashion sense is absolutely atrocious _—_ thick fur collar, heavy black boots, he almost looks like the lead singer from that band Leorio likes so much.

Without uttering a single word, he is loud, he is chaos, he’s got this gravitational pull to him that makes Kurapika wonder, _who is he?_

The man is a creature of habit. He likes to sit by the window at the far end of the car, hunched over a book as if he wasn’t trapped in the human equivalent of a can of sardines. Sometimes it’s about botany. Sometimes it’s a silly shounen manga. His interests are vast and uncanny, but the spontaneity is a splash of color in their monochrome reality.

Kurapika always allows himself to stare a little longer than the average cursory glance, as if his lingering gaze could communicate the thoughts he would never admit aloud. He’d rather die than use some cheesy pick-up line, and York New’s weather was too consistent to discuss at length. _Oh yeah, the weather? Foggy and shitty, tell me something I don’t know._

Yet there are moments where York New breaks free from the conventional and throws him for a loop. Like how right now, Mr. Dark and Mysterious’ face is no longer partially-concealed by _The Life and History of Isaac Netero_ , giving Kurapika an unobstructed view of his serene expression.

Life isn’t a movie and time doesn’t slow, but the sight triggers something raw and unfamiliar and undeniably powerful. Kurapika’s mind threatens to go into overdrive because he doesn’t quite know what to do with this feeling, yet his heart sings with recognition and longing as old as the stars themselves.

It’s ironic, to be honest, how his eyes are grey. A drab, boring color, like the winding concrete streets. And as much as Kurapika wants to look away, to _pull_ away from whatever spell the other had cast, there’s a particular depth in his greys that stops him in his tracks.

It takes a few seconds for Kurapika to realize he was staring _back_.

When his brain finally catches up to his body, he dares to breathe, and for the briefest of moments, the world _stutters_.

 

 _—_ Literally.

 

The emergency brakes screech unforgivingly, leaving their destinies in the hands of inertia.

Bodies and briefcases fly in every direction. Infants are wailing, irate office workers are yelling into their holo-phones, but all Kurapika remembers from that moment is landing right on his ass, the distinct feeling of firm arms, and the heady scent of chamomile mixed with old, worn book pages.

He doesn’t have whiplash, but his head spins.

“Funny how it takes a possible crash to get you to approach me,” Mystery Man remarks with a pleasant chuckle.

Kurapika gapes at him, half-surprised, half-annoyed. Good-looks aside, he’s… kind of a douche. But his ears are ringing loudly, and as articulate as the blond usually is, all he can offer is a slow, flat, “…What?”

Mystery Man has a name, apparently. “Chrollo,” he says with an outstretched hand, a charming smile gracing his visage. “Chrollo Lucilfer. I noticed you’ve been staring at me for the past few weeks.”

Chrollo asks for his name, and Kurapika feels like he’s standing at the edge of a bottomless pit. He’s a stranger, he’s got a terrible taste in coats, you don’t know this guy, _is he even worth my time?_ In any other situation, he wouldn’t have to think twice about dismissing unwanted advances, but he _was_ absurdly handsome, and the attention wasn’t exactly _unwanted_ , per say…

His hesitation takes the form of a gust of wind, whispering for Kurapika to take the plunge.

He’s twenty-four. There was no telling how this could end. His idea of “risk-taking” was ordering something new at a restaurant. This ‘Chrollo’ could be a fucking mass-murderer, for goodness’ sakes.

Chrollo waits expectantly as if he's got Kurapika all figured out.

Unlike Chrollo, Kurapika is predictable, he sticks to a routine. Every decision has its pros and cons taken into account. He calculates, he makes projections.

...But there are no calculations to be made, not when the question is what Kurapika seeks _here_ and _now_ , and the answer has yet to reveal itself.

And that’s just the thing, isn’t it? The answer is going to continue to elude him unless _—_

_—Unless he jumps._

“Kurapika Kurta,” he replies with a newfound determination. In the depths of his soul, something long forgotten stirs quietly.

They shake hands. And in the warmth of Chrollo’s palm, Kurapika seals his fate.

 

 

 

**2040 Hours**

Maybe it wasn’t inertia, Kurapika thinks, that brought them together. Not when he’s been tugging at him with invisible strings since day one. Chrollo’s intrinsic allure leaves Kurapika feeling helpless, defenseless and afraid, but in a way that makes his nerves tingle with anticipation.

They’re sipping lukewarm espressos at a small cafe Chrollo likes to frequent. The beverage slides down Kurapika’s throat with a slow burn. It’s not nearly as scorching as Chrollo’s piercing gaze.

Chrollo is a freelance photographer, an occupation fitting of his wayward, uncaged spirit. He captures York New in snapshots of black and white, urban splendor and dreary mundanities memorialized for all eternity. The world is an ugly place, he says, but there’s a one-of-a-kind beauty that can be found everywhere if you decide to look for it.

A month ago, Kurapika would have snorted; there was nothing spectacular about endless traffic jams and cracked concrete sidewalks. But he nods in understanding because he had stumbled right into the arms of the epitome of that intangible beauty just last week, attractive grin and all.

There are a thousand questions welling at the tip of his tongue. Kurapika swallows them back with a quick gulp of his drink. “What’s it like, being a photographer?”

“Just as you’d expect, I suppose. I’m my own boss, I make my own rules. I love it,” Chrollo responds with a thoughtful hum. “If you’re ever available, you should stop by my studio sometime.”

The suggestion is innocent enough, but Kurapika raises a skeptical eyebrow anyway. “Are you propositioning me?”

“Depends. Is it working?”

Kurapika glares. “You better be joking.”

“Of course, of course.” Chrollo laughs, raising his hands in mock surrender. The sound penetrates skin and bone, shooting straight for Kurapika’s erratic heart. But then the playfulness in his eyes grows solemn, and he moves to caress the blond’s palm with a surprising gentleness, as if he would crumble to dust at the lightest touch. “I would never want to make you uncomfortable, Kurapika.”

There’s something incredibly sincere and sobering in the way Chrollo regards him. The sight plays at his heartstrings, but the resulting tune is one of inexplicable sorrow.

Kurapika smothers these puzzling emotions with a hesitant smile. “That’s… very thoughtful of you. I really appreciate it.”

And he does. The rest of the city won't wait for them, but Chrollo is patient and willing and they have all the time in the world.

 

 

 

**1968 Hours**

His workspace is like an extension of himself. Countless books are scattered across the floor, on tables, on chairs. Boxes of various sizes contain everything from busted light bulbs to unused rolls of film. The studio can only be described as organized pandemonium, but the clutter gives it a homey feel.

A harsh flash pulls Kurapika out of his reverie. Chrollo, grinning mischievously, has a camera in his hands. It’s not one of those sleek, state-of-the-art Insta-cams everyone uses nowadays, however. The label is smudged and indecipherable from years of handling, and the corners are slightly rusty.

“What is that thing?” Kurapika finds himself asking incredulously. “It’s archaic.”

“You say archaic, I say antique,” Chrollo replies, looking somewhat offended. Before Kurapika can protest, the camera whirrs and another blinding flash leaves him seeing spots.

“Chrollo!” He has to rub his eyes furiously, but his irritation is nothing more than a tiny flame. “I don’t recall giving you permission to take my photo.”

“Oh? My mistake.” The lilt in his voice is almost impish; Kurapika can’t hold back the chuckle that bubbles at the back of his throat. Chrollo takes this opportunity to close the distance, and Kurapika’s senses are suddenly filled with chamomile, warm exhales, and Chrollo’s conspiratorial smirk.

Kurapika can almost _hear_ the bullshit that’s about to come out of his mouth.

A hot puff of air caresses his cheek, freezing his frantic thoughts and breathing all at once. “Model for me.”

“—Absolutely _not_ ,” the blond sputtered as he attempted to take a single step back from Chrollo’s suddenly too-close form, but the other man followed, and Kurapika was cornered again. “I’m hardly model material.”

“I beg to differ.” That damned glint in his eyes is back, so fascinating and so bright. “If anything, I’m more concerned about my inability to capture your radiance,” Chrollo remarks with ease, as if he was casually discussing the morning paper.

His answer comes in the form of a bewildered huff and flushed cheeks. Kurapika has to pause to regain his train of thought. “Don’t lie. You would never devalue yourself like that.”

“Wouldn’t I?” Chrollo cants his head ever-so-slightly. It’s a move that’s equally suspicious as it is endearing. “Why don’t we test out your theory, then? In the name of science.”

Kurapika’s not sure how he ended up seminude on a stool with Chrollo fussing over the angle of his shoulders, but as exposed as he is, the situation’s not nearly as mortifying as it should be. Chrollo’s touch is fleeting, so light, and his fingertips leave a trail of heat in their wake. Kurapika wonders if he could hear his heart beating madly against his ribcage.

Chrollo retreats to his tripod to assess his handiwork. His stare _burns_ , and Kurapika has to remind himself to maintain his pose. An unshakable concentration shadows his face as he focuses the lens. It’s the look of an artist who had just found their greatest muse.

“So pretty,” he murmurs almost too softly, and it’s nearly inaudible against the deafening shutters. "So, so pretty." But his words are louder than the mechanical whirring, louder than his thunderous heartbeat.

—And despite himself, Kurapika soars.

 

 

 

**1656 Hours**

Perhaps humans are too complex to categorize into facile groups like the ‘good’ and the ‘bad’. Chrollo, doubly so. He doesn’t care for such superficial labels, and while Kurapika doesn’t agree, the blond also acknowledges that the other man is a product of a cruel milieu that had wanted him dead from the get-go.

Sometimes, bad things happen to good people. Misfortune doesn’t discriminate, it doesn’t care about who you are or where you’re born.

The past is the essence of one’s soul, the backbone, the origin of one’s morals. The Kurtas guide their young from the moment they leave the womb, singing hymns of war, faith, and love. Kurapika was fortunate to have been raised far from mankind’s selfish, miserable grasp. There were no seedy plots for political power in the lush emerald groves of Lukso.

Chrollo was not so lucky.

Kurapika was taught to cherish life and its tiny miracles. Chrollo was bred to believe his existence was as meaningful as a rat’s.

His equipment isn’t “antique” by choice. Inescapable poverty deprived him of most luxuries until the tender age of six. According to Chrollo himself, that was when he first learned how to pickpocket unsuspecting tourists.

The First Great War had destroyed his homeland’s economy, leaving most of its citizens unemployed, hungry, and furious. Protests had turned into riots. They fought viciously, their dreams of returning to a life before the war fueling their paper-thin morale.

Chrollo didn’t inherit that anger. He couldn’t mourn the loss of something he’d never had a taste of. But his mother and father chose their vendettas over their own son, and without so much of a warning, he had been thrust into the world’s gaping maw like a lamb to the slaughter.

And it’s heartbreaking to imagine a child, so terrified and so confused, navigating through the horror that is humanity without a helping hand. It’s part of the reason why Kurapika had chosen to become a teacher. Without the staunch guidance of his clan, he wasn’t sure how he would’ve turned out. He wants to offer other children that same unyielding support.

If Chrollo had someone to turn to, maybe he wouldn’t have been forced to form a gang before his thirteenth birthday.

“All things considered, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself,” Chrollo remarks one day as they’re strolling through Central Park. “As of two days ago, I am officially six months sober.”

Kurapika grimaces, unconsciously preparing for the inevitable. “From what?”

“Plotting heists and stealing candy from babies.”

“If you’re looking for a medal, you won’t get one from me,” Kurapika mutters with a roll of his eyes, speeding up his pace to leave the bemused man behind. It’s a wonder he hasn’t punched Chrollo for real yet. The fact that he used to be a criminal was no laughing matter, and if he were to be completely honest, he wasn’t quite sure if Chrollo had even stopped entirely.

But beneath Kurapika’s annoyance, there’s a tinge of guilt prickling at his gut. In another life, in a reality where they didn’t have the chance to truly understand each other’s circumstances, surely he would have despised Chrollo for the miscreant he was.

The mere thought chills him to his core.

“Just in case you were wondering, I don’t regret my past at all,” Chrollo murmurs absentmindedly, intertwining his fingers with Kurapika’s. “Without it, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.”

Kurapika squeezes his hand in return. “That’d be a shame. I think I like who you are right now.”

And if there were any lingering doubts that continued to eat away at his conscience, Chrollo’s content smile surely washed them away.

 

 

 

**1440 Hours**

On occasion, Kurapika questions whether it's proper for him to feel so comfortable around a man he's barely known for a month.

Every molecule of common sense in his body vibrates with caution, warns Kurapika to fall a little slower, but it’s hard to listen when Chrollo’s tugging at his jeans and mouthing silent promises into the crook of his neck.

Kurapika almost wishes he could blame the alcohol for his sudden forwardness, like the time he drunkenly snogged Leorio at a college party, but this euphoric high isn’t the result of copious amounts of cheap beer.

He kisses Chrollo with a desperation he never knew he had, never knew he was capable of feeling, and the sensation is very much like sipping ambrosia, of which _he is not worthy_.

Kurapika tastes the hint of Cabernet Sauvignon and _himself_ on his tongue, he’s boneless when Chrollo carries him to the futon on the second floor of his studio. And there’s an ineffable familiarity in the way his hands know exactly what to press, where to caress, as if he understood Kurapika’s body as intimately as his own.

A smidgen of embarrassment makes itself known through Kurapika’s slight flush as Chrollo moves to prepare him, but three quick pecks, one on his forehead, his nose, and his lips, is enough to soothe his taut nerves.

Chrollo’s guttural growls and breathless praises imply that this is more than a quick fuck, with the way his hands run down his sides oh-so-reverently, compelling Kurapika to grip onto a throw pillow for dear life because each deep thrust threatens to pull him apart, piece-by-piece. And maybe allowing himself to be unraveled so sweetly is a terrible idea because Kurapika feels beautifully overwhelmed by a force he cannot name, but Chrollo’s shaky pants and sloppy kisses suggest that he is just as susceptible to whatever had possessed them.

Kurapika couldn’t possibly continue to dwell on the matter any further, not with Chrollo pulling on his hips to drive himself deeper into the blond’s delicious warmth. And when Kurapika thumbs the area above his heart, Chrollo pauses for a moment to kiss each individual finger. Each featherlight press of his lips is another nail in the coffin, damning them both to a hell Kurapika never wants to escape from.

If falling for this man is truly a mistake, a _sin_ , let Chrollo’s wicked, intoxicating touch be his penance.

 

 

 

**1438 Hours**

_“Secretary of State Bizeff has announced that the Republic of East Gorteau is planning on withdrawing from the Charter of Mitene. It’s quite the brazen move, don’t you think, Pariston?”_

_“Oh, indeed, but we can’t say the action was unmeditated. The region’s been economically unstable for years after former leader Ming Jol-ik’s sudden abdication. His brother’s methods are… unorthodox, but all we can do for now is wait and see what happens next.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of these days, I'll write a piece that reflects how fucked up these two really are. Unfortunately, today is not that day, and I just wanna enjoy my ridiculous fluff in peace.


	2. you make me feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Yes,” Kurapika announces without so much of a second thought. It isn’t a black-tie restaurant or the rooftop of the Empire State Building, it isn’t in the middle of Central Park on a starry night. It’s an underground bomb shelter with eye-straining lighting and shitty air conditioning, and it’s right. “Does this make me just as crazy?”_
> 
> _Chrollo’s laugh is the sun rising on a winter morning. “Yes, it does."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seriously, just call me "piyo the self-indulgent"

**723 Hours**

The day Chrollo says “I love you” for the first time is the day Kurapika _shatters._

There’s no preamble, no candle-lit dinner under a starry, clear sky. Chrollo doesn’t appear at his doorstep with a dozen roses, a proclamation of his undying devotion falling from his lips. And maybe that’s for the best because his blood is turning to ice, his mind is buzzing with unvoiced regret, and Kurapika is no longer sure if he could handle any more _surprises_ _._

Because what else could this be? The timing is much too convenient to be considered an accident.

His tablet lies on the carpet, face-up and long-forgotten. Kurapika doesn’t remember the exact sequence of events, and he’s not in any rush to remedy that. All he knows is that every major news outlet is running the same damned headline, bold and dramatic and attention-grabbing, and Kurapika just wants all of it to _stop_.

—And his lungs are suddenly too full, too empty, his ribcage is tightening around his frozen heart like an unbreakable, unrelenting chain. Kurapika wishes he could grab onto his own shoulders to shake himself awake from this nightmare. If he were smarter, more vigilant, maybe he would have seen the signs, would have been able to warn them. But Kurapika is all that he is, and all of his shortcomings are mocking him behind an LCD screen, telling him _he should have known better._

If he had ever wondered what it was like to suffocate—to _drown_ —surely, this would be it.

A startling trill disturbs the still air, and the sound yanks him back to the present. When Kurapika looks down, he sees knees curled to his chest, fingers trembling atop his shins. The phone is ringing, but he doesn’t need to check the caller ID. Chrollo had set the ringtone himself, and Kurapika has yet to find a way to change it back. The guitar riff falls upon his ears like thick water—Kurapika swallows. Something in the depths of his soul pangs like it knows what he wants, but his pride is holding his hand fast, and he—he can’t bring himself to move. Because he’s fine. He doesn’t need Chrollo’s false sympathy, he doesn’t want to hear an empty “everything will be okay” from him, of all people.

But—

(Were their deaths quick? Did they suffer? Did his mother pray to the earth and the seas and the skies above for mercy?)

Like an aircraft on autopilot, Kurapika’s clammy thumb swipes to answer the call.

On the other end of the line, Chrollo’s breathing is steady, like always. Kurapika attempts to mimic him, but he quickly chokes on bile that feels more akin to liquid fire.

_“Kurapika?”_

(He hasn’t called Pairo in months. Always said he was too busy.)

_“...Kurapika?”_

(When was the last time he visited? In the recesses of his memory, Kurapika recalls promising his father he’d be back in time for the next Harvest Festival. He was supposed to teach the children a new dance.)

_“Kurapika.”_

(How? Why? _Who?_ )

 _“I heard,”_ Chrollo’s voice cuts in, deep and unflinching. _“Are you home?”_

Although he’s alone, Kurapika nods. His head is spinning—he’s dizzy from having his world turned upside down and it takes everything in him to utter a soft, “Yes.”

_“Do you—”_

“No. No, I’m okay.” Kurapika is far from okay, but he’s too proud to admit it, too ashamed to let Chrollo pick up the broken pieces.

Chrollo exhales softly into the mic. _“This is the part where I tell you you’re a terrible liar.”_

“How do you know I’m lying?” Kurapika spits back, and he almost hopes Chrollo can hear the bitterness in his words. “You’re not even here.”

 _“I don’t have to be in front of you to know that you’re probably glaring at the wall as we speak,”_ Chrollo replies smoothly, tone edged with something Kurapika dares not name.

“I’m _really_ not in the mood to joke around, Chrollo.”

_“Neither am I. I just want to make sure you’re not planning on buying a one-way ticket to NGL to carry out some insane plot for revenge you’re undoubtedly throwing around in your head.”_

“I’m not,” Kurapika responds a minute later, unconvincing to even himself. But Chrollo can’t possibly understand what it’s like to have the ground crumble from beneath your feet, he can’t possibly understand how his anger is palpable enough to tint his vision with _red_. “Don’t worry. I’m not.”

 _“All right,”_ he eventually breathes out, right as Kurapika finds the strength to breathe in. _“All right, Kurapika. Don’t do anything rash; I’m holding you to your word.”_ There’s a bit of shuffling on his end before he sighs, soft in his surrender, and for reasons unknown, the atmosphere shifts.

_“You’re lucky I love you.”_

The confession isn’t romantic, it isn’t poetic. It doesn’t hit Kurapika like some grand epiphany. But Chrollo’s modest deliverance doesn’t make his words ring any less true, and there’s a profound certitude in his voice that makes his ailing heart skip a beat, makes him think that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t have to deal with this alone.

It isn’t romantic, it isn’t poetic—but it’s real.

And it’s too much. Kurapika feels the slightest hint of warmth tickle his bones when all he wants to do is submerge himself in rage, misery, anguish. So, he stays quiet. Chrollo doesn’t bother him for a reaction, and in a way, his silence is more comforting than anything he could possibly say.

Kurapika waits until Chrollo excuses himself and hangs up the call. Only then does he allow himself to fall, to listen to the ghosts that whisper in his ear. He hasn’t cried in years, but his hot tears ground him as they slide down his overheated, sweaty skin.

Because loving Chrollo is like a language. Although he’s far from fluent, Kurapika learns a little more, grows a little more with each kiss, every lingering touch. And when the moment he finds the confidence to _speak_ finally arrives, Kurapika vows to tell Chrollo that _he_ is the answer to his question, that _he_ is everything he never knew he needed.

But for now, Kurapika can only mourn his poor, unfortunate brethren, sacrificed in the name of greed, lives apparently worthless compared to Lukso’s rich ruby deposits, a blessing from his ancestors turned into a curse.

For the next few weeks, Kurapika’s dreams are filled with nothing but a never-ending mantra of “MASSIVE COLLATERAL DAMAGE” and “NO SURVIVORS”.

 

 

 

**418 Hours**

They call themselves the Chimera Ants. Born from nothing and fueled by hate, they had crashed onto the world stage with a violent coup d'état which sent NGL sprawling to the ground. And if toppling an entire nation wasn’t fearsome enough, their rapidly-growing international following serves as proof of their dangerous potential. To bring peace, they wreak havoc. To aid humanity, they destroy the institution. Their goals are straightforward, almost utopian in design.

The hypocrisy is so apparent, it _disgusts_ Kurapika. To think that the Ants truly believe that change can only be achieved through senseless brutality, even if countless innocents have to be dragged into the crossfire. To think that they have the _audacity_ to claim that they’re fighting for the greater good, when one hundred and twenty-eight Kurtas lie buried beneath dirt and ashes.

He’ll never forgive them, and nothing short of death can extinguish the raging inferno of his pure hatred.

Chrollo knows this. They’ve discussed, they’ve argued. Every single time, without fail, Kurapika always storms out feeling even more frustrated than before. And every single time, Chrollo reaches out to him, calling out his name like a reverent prayer, as if a simple embrace is enough to quell the storm inside.

And it usually is. Chrollo’s sturdy, warm arms are a welcome constant in this vertiginous turbulence, it reminds Kurapika that they can’t afford to squabble over petty differences, not when people are dying, and governments are falling with each passing hour.

 _—_ Which is exactly why Chrollo needs to stop going on these damned business trips, but the media is hungry for photographic evidence, a window into a world they’re too cowardly to enter, and Kurapika _swears_ his partner is a fucking masochist.

There’s nothing to worry about, Chrollo always says as he packs his camera and a few clothes into an unassuming duffle bag. He’s hardly reckless, and he’ll have the support of his team, too. Kurapika never protests, never begs him not to go, but he doesn’t trust himself to do more than watch silently from the door because Chrollo always comes back, unscathed and insufferably smug, sometimes with a gift or two in tow.

His mind wanders, though—forces him to consider the what-ifs and those one-in-a-million chances. Kurapika doesn’t want to think about the possibility of Chrollo not returning, of not seeing his self-satisfied smirk as he exits the blimp, of not feeling his lips against his hair, silently asking if Kurapika had missed him.

It’s an unfamiliar type of apprehension that doesn’t sit well with him. He almost wants to let Chrollo go without any further fanfare, if only to prove to himself that he’s still capable of operating independently. But he’s a goddamned adult, and he’s not going to sulk over Chrollo’s departure like some lovesick teen.

When Chrollo approaches him with an expectant look in his questioning greys, Kurapika responds with a contemplative glance of his own before chastely pecking his lips, and he’s fine.

He’s fine when Chrollo steps into the cab and waves one last goodbye (although Chrollo always insists that it’s more of a ‘see you later’ than a farewell).

He’s fine when he rides the train back home, unlocking the door to cook a box of pasta for one, even though they had just gone grocery shopping last week because this coming Thursday was supposed to be something of a date night.

When the night terrors strike without warning, ripping Kurapika from his restless sleep, he searches for Chrollo’s hand in the dark, only to meet cold, cotton sheets, and suddenly, he _isn’t_ fine.

 

 

 

**144 Hours**

BREAKING NEWS: DIEGO JOL-IK ASSASSINATED BY POLITICAL EXTREMIST GROUP 

_“Early Monday morning, Supreme Leader Diego Jol-ik was shot five times by an unmarked gunman. Dozens of palace guards and employees were killed in a massive explosion that followed._

_Mere hours later, the Chimera Ants released a video statement and claimed responsibility for the attack. Second Lieutenant Shaiapouf denounced East Gorteau’s regime, labeling Diego Jol-ik’s demise as a ‘necessary sacrifice for the birth of a new world.’_

_Longtime critics of Secretary of State Bizeff are accusing him of subterfuge, citing his recently-revealed private email server and sudden disappearance from the public eye. Secretary of State Bizeff could not be reached for comment._

_Now, world leaders are scrambling to respond to what could only be a thinly-veiled threat. President Netero warned his constituents to remain vigilant, as the Ants could strike at any time.”_

_“That’s terrible! Do we know who the Ants are targeting next?”_

_“Unfortunately, no. But President Netero is onto something. This could possibly be the beginning of a Second Great War.”_

 

 

 

**99 Hours**

For the first time in weeks, York New is blessed with sunny, clear skies, and Chrollo jokingly calls it an omen.

They don’t have much of a warning before the air quivers with something terrible. A beat of silence passes, a chill runs down Kurapika’s spine, and then—

An ear-splitting, hair-raising wail penetrates the thin walls of Chrollo’s studio. The sound is foreign to Kurapika—he had never heard a civil defense siren before, and each resounding shriek pierces his eardrums, frazzles his thoughts. The mug in his shaky hold slips and shatters on the wooden floor. Lukewarm coffee is seeping into the rug, into his socks, but Kurapika slips on a pair of slippers anyway because every cell in his body is screaming _run._

He barely has enough time to zip up his jeans and throw on a hoodie before Chrollo ushers him outside. Adrenaline pumping and fingers intertwined, Kurapika keeps his pace as Chrollo breaks off into a desperate sprint. They’re racing past crying children and panicked elders, past angry mobs and abandoned taxis. Within the blink of an eye, York New had descended into hell, and Chrollo’s unyielding grasp is all that is keeping him from getting lost in the chaos.

Florists, office workers, café owners—average, everyday citizens are pushing, shoving each other, fighting one another to get closer to the entrance of the bomb shelter. Chrollo weaves them through the dense crowd with a practiced ease until they’re standing in front of an impressive chain-link fence, dividing the saved and the damned as if it had any right to.

At the head of a significantly shorter line, a soldier nods in their direction. “This entrance is reserved for those with Precheck status only,” he proclaims, motioning towards the sign to his left.

“Here,” Kurapika says hurriedly, wrestling his hand from Chrollo’s grip to search his pockets. After a bit of fumbling, Kurapika manages to pull his school ID from the recesses of his wallet. “I’m a teacher.”

He doesn’t wither under the man’s scrutinizing stare, only watches as he scans his ID with a small handheld device. A second that feels more akin to an eternity ticks by before he steps to the side. “Go ahead and proceed to the next checkpoint.”

Muttering a quick ‘thank you’ under his breath, Kurapika tugs Chrollo by the sleeve in a silent command to follow, but he barely has one foot through the threshold before something—someone—pulls him back.

“—Not you,” is all he hears, barely audible against the sirens. Kurapika turns around and there’s a baton poised towards Chrollo’s collarbone. “I’m sorry, but unless you have an ID, you’re going to have to wait in line like everyone else.”

“No, no,” Kurapika blurts out with a disbelieving laugh, “he’s coming with me.”

Chrollo’s face is deceptively blank. Kurapika knows better—his displeasure shows in his clenched jaw, in the fire that’s swirling behind darkened grey irises. “Kurapika, it’s okay,” he eventually says, reaching for Kurapika’s hand to stroke his thumb soothingly across his palm. “I’ll meet you inside.”

The harsh look Kurapika sends Chrollo is one of utter confusion, because _how dare he_ suggest he be left behind. Perhaps he’s being selfish, but the general queue is more than three blocks long, and there’s no telling what’ll happen if the planes reach them first, if the bombs are dropped before Chrollo has a chance to get screened.

An infant sobs in the distance. Kurapika doesn’t know what to do and he’s searching Chrollo’s unreadable gaze for—for something, a hint, _anything._ His mouth is quivering, trembling from the weight of the words on his tongue. They’re holding up the line, he’s running out of time. But then Chrollo squeezes his hand, comforting and warm—it’s the gentlest heat he’s ever known, and suddenly—

A moment of clarity.

“Rules are rules, sir. Now, please—"

“I don’t think you understand,” he finds himself declaring boldly, because they’ve come so, so far, and he won’t let a damned piece of plastic separate them here. Kurapika feels featherlight as he straightens his back, clears his throat. “He is my husband, and he _will_ be coming with me.”

 

 

 

**98 Hours**

It’s funny how fate works out, sometimes.

Leorio is the first to greet him, all teary-eyed and sniveling. He sticks out like a sore thumb with his green, worn scrubs and his stupid sunglasses, which he had thrown to the side the second Kurapika stepped through the metal detector. “We didn’t know if you made it,” he chokes out as he’s entrapping Kurapika in a bone-crushing hug, “and those uniformed _fucks_ at the front wouldn’t answer us when we asked about you.”

“Wait, we?” Kurapika asks, pushing himself away from Leorio to peek behind him, but there really isn’t a point because Gon suddenly attacks from behind, latching onto him like a koala, and Killua’s hand is already ruffling his hair.

“Took you long enough,” Killua remarks with a snide grin, “but I knew you wouldn’t kick the bucket out there.”

Gon groans into his shoulder. “You _really_ need to answer your phone once in a while.”

There’s a collective murmur of agreement and Kurapika’s already opening his mouth to protest, yet he can’t deny how unbelievably relieved he is, knowing that his friends are here, _safe._ Under the harsh fluorescent lights, smothered by their wide, welcoming arms, Kurapika almost feels like he’s home.

When they finally relent and Chrollo sneaks in to press his lips against the back of his neck, Kurapika decides that he _is_ home.

 

 

. . .

 

 

“You’re acting strangely again,” Kurapika mentions a little later, because his curiosity is burning a hole in his stomach, and a quiet Chrollo is always a cause for concern. “What are you plotting now?”

Chrollo, humming thoughtfully, wraps an arm around Kurapika and gives him a light squeeze. “Just thinking, really. You’ve gotten better at lying.”

“That’s hardly a compliment.”

“Depends how you look at it,” he murmurs back, and his gaze is focused far, far away. Chrollo pauses for a moment, as if he’s carefully considering his next words. “To be more specific, I was thinking about the possibility of us getting caught. We could be charged with fraud.”

A brief silence stretches between them, and Kurapika can feel the flush that’s crawling up his neck, up his cheeks. He—he really did openly defy an armed guard out there, didn’t he? Not to mention he had publicly declared that Chrollo was—or, is—his husband. Without his adrenaline-induced high, memories of the past few hours are hitting him like a truck, and he’s downright _mortified._ “Did that ever stop you before?” Kurapika mutters after a terse second, “And anyway, we’re already in. They can’t just throw us out, right?”

“I’m just saying, sometimes the best lies stem from the truth,” Chrollo says cryptically, a wistful smile tugging at the corners of his lips, and Kurapika stills.

“…What are you implying?” he dares to ask, even though the implications are as clear as the ineffable determination in Chrollo’s eyes.

A busted light bulb flickers overhead. In Kurapika’s stunned silence, Chrollo cards a hand through his hair, nuzzles the shell of his ear and whispers, low and powerful, “Marry me.”

 

 

 

**97 Hours**

“First, that’s the _worst_ proposal I’ve ever heard. Second, you’re absolutely insane.”

“Ah, but you have yet to say no,” Chrollo points out with the softest expression Kurapika’s ever seen, and for a moment, his mind takes him back to a different time, a different place. A time when raindrops masked tears, a place where petals of death mocked him for taking too long, for being too late. Kurapika can’t quite explain why his throat suddenly feels so dry, but when he meets Chrollo’s gaze, his soul stirs to life, and then he knows.

It’s in every hushed word Chrollo mouths into his skin as they’re sprawled on his bed, sweaty and satisfied and basking in the moonlight. It’s in every laugh he coaxes out of Kurapika, in every embrace he initiates whenever they argue about the _stupidest shit,_ because Chrollo hates how he takes hour-long showers and Kurapika can’t stand it when he leaves his dirty mugs in the sink.

Chrollo is a lot of things. He is loud, he is chaos—but most importantly, he is _his_ , and Kurapika loves him with all he has.

And yet.

“It’s too soon,” Kurapika says with a shake of his head. The bottomless pit is back, but there’s no helping the seed of crippling doubt in his gut, weighing his feet down like two lead bricks. The fact of the matter is that they barely met three months ago, and Chrollo is asking him to swim across the ocean when three feet of water is enough to choke him. “What if they don’t check the records? There wouldn’t be any point.”

“You know I don’t care about the fraud charges, Kurapika,” Chrollo replies slowly without breaking eye contact.

But Kurapika isn’t finished. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re currently 200 feet underground. We’d need witnesses, an officiant, you—you’re not thinking this through,” he rambles, fist trembling, voice wavering, because cruelty is his last defense against his fear of the unknown. But Chrollo’s got a talent for finding the chips in his armor, and it’s only a matter of time before the dam collapses.

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about this an awful lot lately. You, however, are thinking too much. Trust me when I say that I _want_ this, and I’m not going to rot here for the rest of my life, wondering if you would’ve said yes. So, I suppose what I’m really trying to ask is, what do _you_ want?”

 _You,_ his soul wants to scream, to the world, to the heavens. Yet his tongue, held still by his brain, hesitates.

Because his knees are threatening to buckle under the pressure of something that’s bigger than themselves, and Kurapika isn’t used to having his heart held so tenderly these days. Kurapika knows he’s not very good at _holding_ —it pains him to admit that his own hands quiver despite Chrollo’s unwavering trust. But Chrollo is _there_ , always has been, even when Kurapika’s words turn to thorns with the intent to wound.

They’ve gone from sneaking curious glances on the train to exchanging hopes and dreams on the rooftop, from bickering and fighting to learning and growing. Kurapika remembers, quite vividly, how they had their first kiss outside of a diner at two in the morning, how his gaze lingered on Chrollo’s lips and how he thought that if he didn’t lean in now, he never would. He remembers the first time they slept together, how they didn’t even make it to the bed because the futon was closer and they were desperate to feel skin on skin, desperate to succumb to a month’s worth of unbearable sexual tension.

Kurapika wasn’t a changed man at the end of the night, but Chrollo’s embrace was comforting and safe and _indescribably familiar_ , and he was in love.

 _Is in love,_ Kurapika muses to himself as he breathes in chamomile and old, worn book pages. All it takes is another inhale, and it’s easy.

His heart yearns so keenly for Chrollo because he wants to _feel that_ , that white-hot, euphoric rush of pure joy, shooting through his veins, overpowering his senses, making him feel like he’s on top of the world. Maybe they’re not particularly deserving of a happy ending, but the universe kept them together no matter how fire and ice they’ve been. They’re two pieces of a puzzle, and Kurapika wants—no, _needs_ to feel whole.

The Ants can’t, _won’t_ take this from him. Not them, not anyone else.

Kurapika strokes Chrollo’s cheek like he’s something sacred. “You’re crazy.”

“Crazy enough to ask if you’ll have me,” Chrollo concedes, “But if that’s how you feel, you can always say _—”_

“Yes,” Kurapika announces without so much of a second thought. It isn’t a black-tie restaurant or the rooftop of the Empire State Building, it isn’t in the middle of Central Park on a starry night. It’s an underground bomb shelter with eye-straining lighting and shitty air conditioning, and it’s _right._ “Does this make me just as crazy?”

Chrollo’s laugh is the sun rising on a winter morning. “Yes, it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "piyo, did you just add a third part"
> 
> ...yes, yes i did. BUT that's because i really don't want to rush the ending, so i decided to split it up so i don't sacrifice the pacing. i hope that's okay :')
> 
> PSA: do not save drafts using ao3, smh. i had no idea it retains the publication date from when you create the _draft_ , so that's why this isn't appearing at the top, ugh. i might backdate it later, so please don't be alarmed if you see it move :')
> 
> PSA 2: okay so the [kurokura zine](https://kurokura-zine.tumblr.com/) is going on sale tomorrow, july 22!!! please support this charity fanzine!!!

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: You're never alone. There will always be people who love and cherish you. If you ever have suicidal thoughts, please, talk to someone. Feel free to message me on Tumblr, or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. 
> 
> Huge s/o to [Oana](http://lucilferx.tumblr.com/) for supporting me!
> 
> Thanks for reading! If you wanna talk, feel free to find me on **[Tumblr](http://piyo-nii.tumblr.com/) | [FFN](https://www.fanfiction.net/~piyonii) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/piyo_niiii) | [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.me/piyo_niiii)**


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